


One So Volatile

by daphnerunning



Series: What is Wrought Between Us [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, M/M, Mean Poetry, Secret Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27738658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: It was only supposed to be a short visit. The task of keeping Macalaurë's mouth shut is a fearsome one indeed.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: What is Wrought Between Us [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019358
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	One So Volatile

“Our Findekáno, valiant, who visits Formenos,

To see one cousin, not the rest, and calls him _Maitrus_ ,

A bow of silver on his back, gold ribbons in his hair,

Away he goes, but then returns, and courts no maiden fair;

His meaning, even foolish I, find easy now to parse,

’Tis not for forge he visits here, but for my brother’s--“

“That’s _quite_ enough, Káno.”

“On the contrary, I have eight more verses.”

“The three-octave arpeggio is a bit much, don’t you think?”

“Only the best for you, Russandol.”

“His bow isn’t entirely silver.” It was hardly the part of the song he should be taking offense at, but telling Kanafinwë to stop singing about a subject was the only way to ensure that he sang of nothing else. This would have to be handled _very_ delicately. Kanafinwë was cunning, and while he could certainly be thrashed into submission (all of his brothers could be thrashed into submission, if Maitimo was in a foul enough mood), he was one of the most likely to remember it, and take a creative revenge later.

Kanafinwë considered that for a moment, and bent to scratch something on his paper. “I suppose I could use _hardwood_ , that would certainly fit the theme.”

“Ah.”

“The theme of my new song.”

“I hear your theme.”

“About his _hardwood_ , and my brother’s--“

“How long were you listening at the door, anyway?” Maitimo interrupted, growing steadily more cross. Kanafinwë couldn’t have overheard anything _too_ circumspect, he and Findekáno had been careful not to so much as kiss in the house at Formenos. They had talked, of course, making arrangements for another trip to Tirion to speak properly to his uncle at last. That had seemed safest, though he had been loathe to part with Findekáno when it felt as if he had only just arrived, a bright spot in the months they’d been apart. Likely Kanafinwë was just extrapolating, choosing what he thought was the most amusing option from some tidbits he’d picked up.

“At the door?” Kanafinwë gave him a shrewd smile, his eyes lidded. “If I were you, Russo, I’d worry more about what one might have overheard just outside of Turko’s kennels, in the rowan grove.”

“As a brotherly warning,” Maitimo said lightly, belying the flutter of unease he felt at that, “be aware that we’re edging closer and closer to the place where I solve your impertinence with violence.” Violence it would have to be, if he _had_ seen them in the rowan grove. He could still feel Findekáno’s hands in his hair, still taste Findekáno’s seed, and was more than loathe to think of Kanafinwë seeing him like that.

Kanafinwë only laughed at him. “Will you lock me in the stables with the yearlings again, as you did when I spilled ink on your green robes? My, my, does sweet Findekáno know that he’s attached himself to one with such a temper?”

“Teasing one so volatile as you paint me hardly seems wise.”

“Now, now, you’re just cross because you had to say your farewells...” Kanafinwë paused, reaching for his quill again.

“Do _not_ add a tenth verse,” Maitimo warned. “My patience wears thin.”

“You would threaten your own brother?” Kanafinwë asked, pressing a hand to his breast as if scandalized. “Then again, with what you’re willing to do with your _cousin_ , perhaps--“

He dodged the blow Maitimo threw at him, laughing wickedly, and called out over his shoulder, “Moryo! What’s a good rhyme for ‘mare in heat?’”

Maitimo growled, snatching for him, but Kanafinwë was swift, dancing just out of his long reach, as Morifinwë bellowed back from his room, “Fresh-killed meat!”

“Silver sheet!” called Pityafinwë, followed by Telufinwë’s equally earnest, “Time to eat!”

“Lying cheat,” suggested Curufinwë, quickly followed by Turcafinwë’s, “Swift drumbeat!”

“I hate you all,” Maitimo declared, and turned on his heel, stalking towards the front door amidst his brothers shouting, “Keep it neat!” “Mossy peat!” “Rain and sleet!” “Fancy suite!” “Tasty treat!” “Half-hulled wheat!” “Shan’t compete!” “Sad defeat!” “Good athlete!” “Windy street!”

“You’re all bad poets,” Kanafinwë announced gravely to them, behind Maitimo’s retreating back. “But thank you.”

The raucous laughter fell silent as soon as the front door opened, before Maitimo could reach it. Fëanor’s mouth was open as if to shout, but he caught sight of Maitimo, and nodded. “You’re already here. Follow me, Nelyo.”

Maitimo’s heart sank. He followed his father, premonition dark in his mind, as his father led him out to the forge. As he’d dreaded, Findekáno stood there, his gaze a mix of embarrassment, nerves, and hope when Maitimo walked up next to his father.

“Look who I caught sneaking around my forge,” Fëanor said disapprovingly. “Come on your father’s behalf? He isn’t content with poisoning my father and the Valar’s minds against me, he wants to steal my secrets, too?”

Findekáno swallowed, and bowed his head. “No, Uncle. My father wants to poison no one and steal no secrets. I told you, I was coming to visit my cousins only.”

“Don’t call me Uncle. You were behind my forge!”

“I was showing him Turko’s kennels,” Maitimo said, stepping forward to stand between his father and Findekáno, though the act made his heart thud. “Sigourn whelped recently, and I thought he’d like to see the pups.”

Findekáno had indeed enjoyed seeing the puppies, nearly as much as Maitimo had enjoyed their long moments in the rowan grove afterwards on his knees in front of his cousin, after which he’d thought it prudent to leave separately. Apparently, that was an error, as he’d been immediately set upon by Kanafinwë’s rude songs, and Findekáno had apparently been spotted by Fëanor on his way home.

Fëanor stared at him, and Maitimo set his shoulders, schooling his face to careful calm. His father preferred it when he raged, calling it ‘passion,’ and said it was the time he could best see himself in his eldest son’s face. Maitimo hated losing control that way, though, and had long ago resigned himself to bearing the brunt of his father’s anger, even drawing more out of him because of his defiance. That was fine. He was stubborn, too.

For just a moment, he felt a stab of sadness and loss, for the father that he’d had as a youth, who wasn’t consumed by jealousy and fury, but excitement and discovery. He missed the shining High Prince who had tousled his hair and taught him to read and sketch and forge, taken him to court and boasted of his firstborn son’s tactical mind and charisma, proudly calling him into his office to show off his own creations, tenderly resting a hand on his wife’s hair. Maitimo hadn’t seen that Father for many years, and missed him even more than he missed his mother.

Fëanor’s face flushed with anger, and he cast a black look over Maitimo’s shoulder at Findekáno. “Your father isn’t content with having me exiled? You’ll turn my heir against me, too?”

“Father--“

Findekáno shouldered him aside, anger blazing in his own face. “I’ve come in peace and fellowship, to bring my cousins news of their mother and see dogs,” he said, showing no trace of fear, though far stronger and elder than he had quailed in the face of Fëanor. “As my father would welcome you back to Tirion, if you would but extend your hand.”

“Fellowship,” Fëanor scorned, taking not a step back as he looked between his son and his nephew. “What knows a son of Ñolofinwë of fellowship? He would supplant you, Nelyo, and wants your inheritance for his own.”

“He cannot take what I give him freely!” Maitimo didn’t know where he had found the courage to say the words.

Worse, it didn’t matter.

No one heard him.

Findekáno and his father were both shouting, and then Kanafinwë was there with his harp, trying to soothe their father away while Maitimo tried to grab for Findekáno. The door to the house stood ajar, and he saw his brothers all boiling out of it, with the sudden horror of a thought that it was like watching a pack of Turko’s dogs corner a fox.

He had seen how badly such a thing ended.

No, he told himself, shaking his head. These were no animals bred to the hunt, these were his brothers, and loyal and determined, and Findekáno their beloved cousin. But the air felt charged in a way that made him sick, and he struggled the more fiercely as neither his father nor his cousin pulled back.

And then a voice, as loud as his father’s, as resonant as Kanafinwë’s, more commanding than either, demanded, “What nonsense is this?”

Maitimo, Findekáno in his arms and a good four inches off the ground, set his cousin down at once, straightening up as his grandfather strode up the path to the forge, black brows furrowed in his handsome face. Even Fëanor subsided, though his blood was up and in his face, and his powerful hands were clenched into fists.

Finwë gave his son a stern look, then cast it around to his grandsons. He looked hardly older than Fëanor, but the wisdom of his eyes belied that aura of beauty, hiding a particular shadow Maitimo thought came from seeing what lay beyond the sea. There was a calling, a hunger in him for those stories, that he’d begged and demanded from his grandfather, when he’d been the only, and quite most spoiled, of the third generation of Noldorim.

Findekáno spoke first, his arms crossed over his chest, clothing rucked up from being summarily lifted away from his chosen field of battle. “Grandfather. I wasn’t spying, I just came to visit, Father doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“Of course your father knows you’re here,” Fëanor scoffed.

Maitimo ached. If only he could force his father to see Findekáno, to truly see him, body and spirit, for who he was, rather than who his father was, surely everything could be resolved. He’d _liked_ Findekáno, in their youth.

“Mm. Look at me, Finno.”

Findekáno met his grandfather’s eyes without hesitation. There was a moment of quiet, then a sharply indrawn breath, and Finwë’s eyes flicked sideways to Maitimo.

Ah.

Fëanor started forward, but his father held up a hand, quietening him. “Peace, my son. You know well that Findekáno’s passions are not in the forge, nor in secrets.”

Fëanor’s mouth turned. “Of course. Manwë’s favorite, aren’t you, Findekáno? Perhaps the Valar sent you, to ensure I’m properly penitent?”

“Father, that’s enough!” Even Maitimo was startled at how loudly his own voice came out, a shout as if he were Oromë himself, and he stepped forward, meeting his father’s gaze unerringly. “May I not have friends, closeness, or kin? I choose to abide here with you, as do my valiant brothers, because I believe in you, after all. If you will forbid me all company and companionship, you are more controlling than the Valar themselves!”

“Exactly,” chimed in Kanafinwë, of all people, stepping up to stand next to Maitimo, laying a hand on their father’s arm. “And you aren’t. Obviously Father doesn’t mean that, Maitimo. After such cruel treatment as our family has received, what Noldor of honor would not be wary? And what Noldor of grace would not be wise? Father is wise, and gracious, and honorable, is he not? Of course he is. And dear Findekáno is likewise kind and true, with no malice in his heart for any save Morgoth the Shadow. Come, cousin. Let us return inside, and drink to the defeat of the Enemy, as we once did. Father, it is your house after all, but might Grandfather not join us?”

Somehow, the skillful speech delivered in Kanafinwë’s lilting, measured tones sapped the electric tension out of the situation, and Fëanor shook his head, as if clearing cobwebs. “Sly-tongued little songbird,” he muttered, but with a ghost of humor on his face. “Aye. Findekáno, come back inside. Tell us of this year’s Games, and how foolishly Rùmil acquitted himself this time.”

Kanafinwë shot a look back at Maitimo, and the words came fully-formed into his mind. _You owe me._

 _Aye_ , Maitimo thought back gratefully, though he wasn’t sure if his brother heard. He had not his grandfather’s gift for ósonwë.

A strong hand gripped Maitimo’s shoulder as he moved to enter the house with his brothers. He’d expected it, but grimaced nonetheless, and shook his head when Findekáno looked back questioningly at him. “Nelyafinwë,” his grandfather said, his voice calm but implacable. “I would have a word.”

Maitimo nodded, and hung back as the rest of his family went back into the house, peaceably chatting as if they hadn’t all been about to...no, Maitimo couldn’t think that any violence would really have come of it, but he was glad the moment had passed nonetheless. Sometimes, there was a capacity for darkness in his brothers that he didn’t like. He saw it in himself, too, and liked it even less.

When the door was shut, he turned to face the High King, squaring his shoulders as if he were not afraid.

Finwë’s eyes were searching, less as if he were trying to read Maitimo’s mind, more as if he were looking for the answer to a question whose syntax he could not read. “Why?” he finally asked. “Why would you flout our customs so, and hide this from your family? Why--of all the Eldar in Aman, your cousin? And in secret?”

Maitimo’s hand came up, unbidden, to clutch at the silver ring under his shirt. His face burned with shame, but he didn’t look away. “He has the words to explain,” he said softly. “I’m not one for speeches and arguments. I can only say plainly: because I am selfish. I wanted him.”

“That is why we declare our intentions to our parents,” Finwë said, shaking his head. “That they might offer counsel, and the cooling of elder heads may prevail. You should have been warned away from this...this mad folly. I thought you, at least, mature enough to understand that, even if Findekáno is still too young.”

A hot flush rose in Maitimo’s chest. He felt it creeping up his neck and ears, but held his ground. “I know it isn’t what you perhaps would have wished, Grandfather, but...” He spread his hands. “It is done.”

Finwë gave him a look then, so full of sudden pain, loss, and guilt, that Maitimo could hardly breathe at the sight of it. “Think you that a marriage born of love can bring only joy?” he asked, each word aching. “That there is no destruction caused because such a thing was innocently meant? You, who live in exile because I followed the same path? You would throw aside the traditions meant to protect our people from their most reckless passions?”

“...The world is young, is it not?” Maitimo found the words--not his own, but Findekáno’s, that he had committed to memory like one of the finest songs he’d ever heard. “All things that come to be practiced as notable and good must come to pass for the first time, once. How else would have come Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë, and most importantly, Findekáno the Valiant?”

“Nelyo...”

“I’m not a child, Grandfather. No more is Findekáno.” Maitimo took a step forward, intent, urging his grandfather to listen, and hear. “I know that not all paths that lead towards great love are gently sloped, but surely, choosing the path that leads away is _not_ one of the light, even should the walking be easier? Even if it came from thoughts of propriety and tradition?”

“Even if you were...hasty, in your ardor,” Finwë protested, with a grimace that showed exactly how distasteful he found the idea, “if you haven’t given vows and invoked--“

“The Valar, the One, and the stars,” Maitimo said quietly, and met his grandfather’s eyes. “Regrets I may have in great measure. But this, I think, will be the least of them.”

The High King of the Noldor looked into his eyes. Maitimo felt the intrusive prickle of ósonwë, and let it into his mind, though his father had long ago shown him how to refuse such intrusions if he desired. He shared what he could--his unflinching love, his resolve, and his regret borne only of the strife between their families, for any other objections, he was ready to meet and defy.

It felt long, but was no more than a heartbeat, the contact between them. Finwë broke the contact, and sighed, turning to face the house. “Then let us share a meal, as we once did,” he said, echoing Kanafinwë’s words. “And if you can repair the strife between my two eldest sons, I will bless even a union so strange as this one.”

Maitimo’s heart leapt in his chest. “Truly?”

Finwë’s mouth twitched at one corner. “The world is young, is it not?”

**Author's Note:**

> JUST ONE MORE pre-oath installment!
> 
> I kind of turned this into my Nanowrimo, so I'm working hard to hit 50k before the end of November. There's just so much research that it's slow going, but I have not enjoyed myself while writing this much in a long time.


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